


an unfortunate mythology

by lances



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Arguing, Bittersweet, Love/Hate, M/M, Morning After, Post-Coital, sinbad is an asshole and judar is a brat, whats new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 08:36:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12860832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lances/pseuds/lances
Summary: Sinbad's eyes lid, sated. “I love you in the same way others might love their gods.”“How romantic,” Judar mocked, resting a hand on his bare waist, hair still holding despite the long wisps that fell from the back. “You should’ve been a hermit or a poet, you might actually do your job right for a change,king.”He didn’t get a verbal response―just that entertained, patronizing smile that always stitched itself onto Sinbad’s features.





	an unfortunate mythology

**Author's Note:**

> this was a ton of fun to write considering i haven't been into magi for like - five years or something lol 
> 
> also, i use _judar_ because that's what his arabian nights counterpart was called. not to mention, judar is a real name and judal isn't (despite it looking/sounding nicer orz)
> 
> i was listening to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EE8cHyjCNLE) the entire time. i suggest you guys give it a listen, it's super pretty 
> 
> anyways, enjoy!

The morning was his, in the way all things were: drawn out against his form, woven into the finest lines of his body, into the deepest crevices. Judar embraced it, allowed the heat to drift in through Sinbad’s window and knot the fine strands of his hair. _Yes_ , they were mornings like these where all his desires simmered down to leisure and lethargy; he could deal with the war on his own terms, on his own time. His lips curled at the dominant thought, face burrowing further into the silk bedsheets.

It was different in Sindria than it was at Kou.

The _rukh_ behaved differently, for one, and Judar chose to blame it alone for his irrationality. He was a manifestation of that power, and no matter how abstract or intangible _rukh_ was when idle, it wasn’t easy disentangling himself from its influence. Just the pleasant, drunken chatter it emitted, forced warmth to drone between his lungs, keeping him tied to this city for a night or two longer than planned.

The form behind him moved, but Judar made no move to turn towards the shifting, eyes still tied onto the decorative frame of the wide _mashrabiya._ Even the art of it, hollowed wood, carved and waxed and handcrafted, was different than the art at Kou.

Neither was any lovelier than the other—and Judar's vanity made him, at least in his own opinion, a credible judge of beauty. 

“Aren’t you up a little early?” Sinbad mused, his voice saturated with sleep, hoarse on every syllable. Judar felt a palm rest itself against the roll of his shoulder, thumb pressing his exposed nape with a strong, deliberate tenderness. “I thought you’d be sound until at least noon.”

Judar scoffed, not leaning into the gesture but appreciating it nevertheless. Having his hair pushed up above his head—pooling like ink between an ornamental headboard and Sinbad’s lurid, embroidered bolsters—was a functional decision taken to avoid the heat; getting pampered for it, though, was an added perk. “I wake up with the sun.”

“What a pretentious thing to say,” Sinbad chuckled, his breath brushing Judar’s skin at a distance. “You could have just said you wake up early, productivity isn’t wrong.”

“Idiot,” Judar’s voice was placid, holding no real malice. “I don’t wake up this early because I want to—the _rukh_ gets restless at certain points in the day. Sunrise is one of them, it’s an epicenter of energy.”

Sinbad hummed in response, letting his ministrations follow the convex of Judar’s neck, down to the early dip of his spine, fingers settling between bare shoulders. “You can say they’re early birds, then.”

Judar’s breathing stopped in mild disbelief. “I can’t believe you made a joke that bad as early as five-thirty in the gods’ good morning.”

At this, Sinbad’s laugh grew louder, moving to rest his hand instead on the break of Judar’s tilted waist. His skin was too warm to be pleasant given the heat, body a furnace that shuffled in closer to Judar’s own. Half tempted to buck Sinbad off, Judar let an annoyed sound leave him; it was too much effort, and his liquidized joints gave in to laziness with ease. Instead, he remained still, inhaling the smell of incense that was woven into the bedding, and the _ittar_ that clung to Sinbad’s form.

Coming down from his high, Sinbad breathed, “Come, come. I thought you’d appreciate my humor, you certainly appreciate everything else about me.”

“Shut up, geezer,” Judar said, smirking into the cushion, unseen by the king. His eyes ran along the fronds of a palm tree through the woodwork. “I don’t appreciate how moronic you tend to be, for one.”

“Ah, yes,” Sinbad huffed, “You certainly feel the need to remind me of that every handful of sentences.”

“It’s not like you don’t deserve it.”

Judar could _smell_ Sinbad’s deadpan before the man even had a chance to speak. “You’re a pain. I don’t know how Kouen does it.”

At that, Judar looked over his shoulder, having his eyebrow bounce once in an obnoxious display of sarcasm. He sighed it against the flat line of Sinbad’s lips, “ _Magic._ ”

“You’re a brat.”

“Thanks, old man. I find it adds an extra layer to my personality.” Judar laughed, lofty and carrying. Being with Sinbad in private was far easier than having to deal with him in public. There were prerequisites to those exchanges, a manner of behavior they were both expected to partake in—not necessarily fake, but certainly exaggerated. No, Sinbad didn’t like Judar’s actions, and Judar despised being in the back-burner.The anger and vexation they put on weren't for show.

But there, in those chambers, they tended to ignore the context in favor of the physical.

“I could do without it,” Sinbad heaved in a breath, body bending at the waist as he sat up. “Your beauty can only take you so far.”

Judar took the opportunity to roll onto his back, letting out a strung sound, joints distended. His body fell from its arch like a loosened sack of marbles. “It’s carried the weight of my personality thus far, I doubt it’ll fail me anytime soon.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Sinbad glanced down at him, indifferent. “There’s only so much a pretty smile can fix.”

“And you’re saying you have a charming personality or something?” Judar scoffed, annoyance beginning to blossom in his tone. The morning had been fine, but of course, Sinbad had to bring his typical string of criticism into it. He had a bad habit, after all, of attempting to save Judar from his own self-destruction. _A valiant effort, really._ “You’re just as awful and conceited as I am. In fact, you're farther gone if you actually think you have the right to lecture me.”

“Consider it advice,” was the unbothered response. “For a future lover’s sake.”

“I’ll be sure to pass the message along,” Judar’s eyes slanted, their corners tight. His torso pushed up in one swift move, cold gaze never leaving Sinbad’s. “I can’t promise much, what with my body being mine and all. You’ll just have to live with it.”

Sinbad rolled his eyes, exasperated. “ _Judar_ —”

“Be _quiet_ ,” he snapped back, running a hand through his hair, rolling the bulk in expert flicks over his shoulder before piling it onto his head, strands tying into each other. “You manage to ruin everything, you licentious fuck.”

Judar grit his teeth behind pursed lips, tossing one leg over the side of the bed, ankle tucked beneath his bent knee. Just as he finished securing his hair into a sizable bun, he felt Sinbad’s forearm drape across his collarbones from behind, tugging him into a sweat-damp chest, the slope of his nose resting by Judar’s ear. The order was a patient one, “Calm down.”

“Get off me.” Judar hissed through locked teeth, giving Sinbad the chance to move; he didn’t take it.

Instead, the gentle press of lips found the underside of Judar’s jaw, cushioned and soft against bruised skin. _Gods,_ it made his blood boil—there was nothing he hated more about Sinbad than his viewpoint on seduction as a mechanism for distraction rather than affection. Judar was not the most affectionate person himself, and rather found comfort in the bed of others more for pleasure than the promise of good company—but there was something particularly despicable about wielding people’s own vulnerability against them.

He hated that it made him see even more potential in Sinbad as a candidate.

_The perfect king is the perfect asshole, looks like it._

Judar couldn’t help it: a small incredulous chuckle fell from between his lips. “Do they even know?”

He felt Sinbad hum in question against his throat, his drawl knotting syllables together in a slur. “Who, and what, my love. You’re too cryptic.”

“Just how awful and messed up you actually are? Your generals.” Judar’s head tilted, angled towards Sinbad’s. His malicious smile fixed itself in place, eyes hollowed crystals in the patterned light, sun left stenciled by the _mashrabiya_. “How manipulative and cruel you can be? Have they ever stopped to wonder why I was more keen on taking you on as a king than Aladdin ever was?”

It seemed to amuse Sinbad more than offend him, if the smiling kiss Judar received at the corner of his mouth was much to go by. The expression itself was double-edged, in the way most of Sinbad’s gazes were, placid and sated on the outside, with a calculative underbelly drawn into the flex of his jaw. “Maybe it’s a side I show only you. Maybe it’s a gift.”

“Keep your warped love to yourself, then, your majesty,” Judar said, biting and sardonic, as he reached back to pull at Sinbad’s hair, tugging on his nape in one single, unforgiving movement. “Advice. For a future lover’s sake.”

“I thought you wanted me— _loved_ me—enough to keep what we have.” Sinbad ignored the jab and the abuse, resuming his path down pale skin, brushing against the rise of Judar’s shoulder, skin sensitive under the weight of wine-chapped lips. He moved his arm back, far enough to wrap a loose palm around Judar’s throat, using it to both tip his head and keep him in place—not that Judar had shown any pretense of moving away. “We’re quite the pair, after all.”

“I never once said I loved you,” Judar responded, nonchalant despite the honeyed purr resting in his tone. Their relationship was far from orthodox, and there was some pleasure—some _rush—_ from Sinbad’s inherent desire to overpower him, even in the mildest gestures. Judar knew well that he could take control of the situation with the flick of his wrist, even if Sinbad wouldn’t make it easy. He chose not to anyway. “Don’t delude yourself. Don’t mistake convenience for care.”

“Oh?”

Judar tipped his head back, resting his neck on Sinbad’s shoulder, rolling it to the side to speak directly against the man’s ear. “Loving your cock is hardly the same as loving you as a person—that’s a feat even _I_ can’t accomplish.”

Sinbad scraped his teeth against Judar’s skin. “You’re vulgar and cruel, darling.”

“And yet you fuck me at every opportunity, how noble,” Judar spoke, sharp. Despite the crude nature of the statement, it didn’t affect the truth of it. No, Judar didn’t cross paths with Sinbad often, and he seldom came to Sindria unless there were less-than-friendly motives involved; when he did, though, they fell into routine. No one knew about it, and if someone did, they didn’t question it.

Sinbad’s grip on his throat firmed ever-so-slightly, though not enough to hurt or cut off his breathing. A warning, perhaps. “You’re a cynic.”

“What of it?” Judar tossed back with the same ease. “Better be that, than a moron.”

“I am a moron.” Sinbad agreed, lifting his head and tilting Judar’s own, gentle in the way he brought their gazes to alignment. “You’re a horrible person, and yet here we are. I’ve fallen in love with _Iblis_ himself.”

Judar cackled, mocking, before bringing his arms back, fingers stowing into the loose bank of Sinbad’s hair. “Love? Please, you’re too shallow—you might like how I look in your bed, but you certainly don’t have the capacity to feel anything like _that_. The role of the victim doesn’t suit you, it’s pretty pathetic _._ ”

Sinbad’s patience simmered, Judar could feel it in the irritation of the _rukh_ around them; Sinbad’s smile, however, did not. “I’m being poetic. I should’ve known you wouldn’t appreciate it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Judar finally shook him off, and Sinbad dropped his hold without fight. He took a stand, muscles lithe and uncurled, basking in chopped sunlight and the silence of the room. Everything seemed cooler this way, tiles chilled against his toes, wind fresh against the dampness of his skin. Judar could almost taste the sea-salt that lined it, aware of how it broke against his grin. “Are you saying you don’t love me, or that I can’t feel it either?”

“A little bit of both, and neither at the same time.” Sinbad mused, leaning back on his forearms, bedsheets clinging to narrow hips. When Judar made a swift pirouette to face him, Sinbad eyes lid, sated. “I love you in the same way others might love their gods.”

“How romantic, Sinbad.” Judar made a sound of amusement, placing a hand on his bare waist, hair still holding despite the long wisps that fell from the back. “You should’ve been a hermit or a poet. You might actually do your job right, then, king.”

He didn’t get a verbal response, just that entertained, borderline patronizing smile that always stitched itself onto Sinbad’s features.

Judar’s response wasn’t immediate, either, choosing instead to stare Sinbad down from above. _As it should be._ That latent power struggle, that nonverbal exchange brought tension back into the room tenfold. It may have been worse with people around, and it certainly knew how to disappear when they were in the heat of the moment—but the fire of their dynamic never left them alone for too long. With a cock of his eyebrow, haughty and arrogant, Judar responded, “You’re devoted to me, then?” 

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Well, I could’ve made you a god, Sinbad. You could’ve been a _god_.” Judar’s chin tilted upward, his grin left edged. “But you turned away the only prophet willing to do that, remember?”

After a thoughtful sound, “I don’t think that’s quite what I mean.”

Judar’s smile twitched to the left, taking on a more neutral form. “Yeah?”

“I love you in the same way a person loves their gods,” Sinbad repeated, leaning forward to rest his elbows across both thighs, neck craning to eye Judar. The gaze was not malicious, but it wasn’t friendly, either—Judar’s guard raised and fortified itself after one sweep of Sinbad’s eyes along his body. “With reverence and fear, is a more accurate description.”

For once, he didn’t have much of a clap-back.

He had nothing to give Sinbad, no response that would hand justice to the claim. Instead, Judar’s face shattered into confusion and blatant disbelief. After a long moment, the gentle sound of birds and early morning-trade settling between them, he found his voice. A hissed, and incredulous set of sounds strung together, “You’re _afraid_ of me? What horseshit is that, Sinbad, how demented do you take me to be, exactly? You wouldn’t have faced-off against someone if you had the slightest fear of losing to them.” 

Sinbad cracked a smile, making a move to stand only for Judar to take a fluid hop back. His shoulders rested against the wood of the _mashrabiya,_ eyes a vicious brand of cold meant only for the occasion. Sinbad sighed, staying put, “Not of _you_ —of your actions. You’re volatile and unpredictable, you’ve got a well of power at your fingertips and you use it for amusement more than anything.”

Judar scoffed, “You’re afraid that, what, I’ll hurt people? A little late for that, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” Sinbad agreed, smile intact, “But that’s exactly why I said what I said—the only real neutral being is a deity. They serve only themselves, and that’s terrifying.”

“If you fear your gods that much, I’d suggest looking for new ones.” Judar snapped, reaching down to grab his harem pants, sliding them on with practiced ease. He moved to grab the scarf as well, but Sinbad took hold of his wrists before he could, pulling Judar forward to stand between his spread knees; the expression he received was gentle and Judar hated every line of it.

“Then they wouldn’t be gods, would they.”

Judar’s eyes narrowed. “That makes no sense, you idiot.”

“Think, for a second,” Sinbad let go of his arms, only to rest both palms on Judar’s waist, fingers idle as they stroked the dip of his back, right above the waistline of black silk. “Why worship a god you don’t fear? It isn’t logical.”

Judar looked down at him, unimpressed, “So I’m your god now, am I?”

“Your vanity knows no bounds,” Sinbad chuckled, leaning forward to press a kiss at the base of a pale sternum. “I said I cared about you in a similar way, not that you actually _were_ one. Least of all mine.”

Judar reached, unforgiving fingers latching onto Sinbad’s jaw in a single, harsh movement. “Stop fucking with me. I don’t like it.”

“I thought we were having a moment, my love,” Sinbad said, wholly amused in that cruel and satisfied way of his. “You’re powerful, sure, but even you have limits, whether those are emotional or physical. All I’m doing is urging you to acknowledge that you’re responsible for a lot more than just yourself.”

“Enough of your philosophical garbage,” Judar hissed, tossing Sinbad’s face to the side with a flick of his wrist. There was nothing about this conversation that needed his attention, not with Sinbad’s subtle forms of manipulation laid out so openly. Judar knew—this man would do anything to get what he wanted. They were not friends, after all, and Sinbad could spare him a moment of compassion but he won’t forfeit a war on his behalf. “I didn’t come for a lecture, and by the gods, if I wanted one, I wouldn’t have come _here_.”

“And where would you have gone?” Sinbad watched on as the magi dressed, jewelry ringing. The marks on his body had healed overnight, making way to that black-white contrast of skin and silk. _A shame._

“I don’t know,” Judar muttered, clicking his tongue when the scarf loosened his hair a little, “Yunan’s an option, he’s definitely prettier and more powerful than you could ever dream of being. Not to mention, he actually sounds like an intellectual, not a starving oudist.”

“I’ll have you know,” Sinbad laid back to stretch his form, letting the full glow of the sun swallow the chamber whole as Judar perched himself by the window. “The music in Sindria is incredible.”

“Oh, I’ve heard it play,” Judar smirked. He leant his body halfway out of the now open _mashrabiya,_ lips pursed and taunting. “But I’m more interested in _kings_ , than musicians; maybe next time, oudist.”

And then his body fell, in that graceful, graceless manner—a simple drop that, had Judar not been a magi, Sinbad would’ve gotten up to check on him. Instead, though, he slid his eyes closed with a smile.

 _Ah_ ,  _what a brat._

**Author's Note:**

> i did _research_ for this fic okay let me live :')


End file.
